


Sanctum

by CReed



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Dragon Age Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Rimming, Slash, Three-way Relationship, Threesome - M/M/M, after the third act
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CReed/pseuds/CReed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The need for revolution and chaos by Hawke's batty lover was all good and well, but obviously they didn't think of the people left in Kirkwall when they scampered off—doing whatever it is law-breaking couples do. Those that stayed either tried to exploit the madness or, idiotically, saw something in the city worth saving and fighting for. This was Carver's home, and now that he had something he could not afford to lose, he would do anything for it. It also didn't hurt that no matter what he faced, it would not be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanukiham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/gifts).



> So, I was asked by tanukiham, the one who brought us all such lovely titles like “The Other Hawke,” and “The One You Feed,” to share my cleaned up and polished story concerning Cullen, Carver, Fenris and my need to put them all in a relationship. This was just one of the ways I could see them being together. If anyone else wants me to, I would happily write another scenario. Enjoy!

“Here you are, Knight-Commander.”

The servant held the door open for the recruit, whose hands were busy with a tray of tinctures and potions, poultices and strips of linen. The bowl of steaming water barely sloshed as he placed it on the table.

“Thank you... Abram, was it?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.” The young man could hardly keep himself from beaming as he guessed his name. “Are you sure this is all you need? I could fetch a healer.”

A muffled, garbled sound came from behind him, most likely a colorful expletive along with a refusal. “No, that is unnecessary. It is enough that you went for these things after helping him back here.”

“It was no trouble.”

“Now go see to yourself,” he motioned toward the angry abrasion on his otherwise smooth cheek. “You have the rest of the day off, recruit.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander, thank you.”

Before the door closed completely, the servant took one look at the slumped figure in one of the chairs and frowned. At the sight of the blood and the way her other master favored his jaw, lamb shank suddenly did not seem the appropriate dinner to serve. “I will have something suitable sent up for the evening meal, Master Cullen.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Tilly.”

With a sigh he gathered up the bowl and a few cloths. A sharp crack of thunder shook the walls and he was grateful for the warmth of the fire. Rain pelted against the windows. He knelt before the wounded man, easing his hand, sticky with blood, away from his mouth. The dirty, feather-soft strands of white hair falling against the usually sharp cheekbone proved too tempting and he brushed it aside, careful of the puffy bruise.

“Let's take care of this first, shall we?”

Fenris didn't put up any fuss, a testament to how much discomfort he was in. Cullen dabbed lightly at the blood. Years of practice made him quick and efficient at dealing with wounds, which was also why Fenris let him. He didn't have to worry about being scolded or coddled. Not by him. When the dirt and blood was gone he leaned up and closer, tilting Fenris' head back with one hand while gently examining his lip. There was an ugly split in the middle of his plump bottom lip and another in the corner of his mouth. It was the kind of wound one got after a well-placed, plate gauntlet to the face.

“You are in luck.” He stood, fingers caressing as they left his face, and retrieved a bottle of weak healing potion. “I am not going to have to sew you up.”

“The Maker must certainly favor me for sending me such small fortunes.” A rumbling voice muttered behind him and he smiled.

“Well, if you can be sarcastic with a dash of blasphemous then you must be fine.”

He settled once more onto his knees before the warrior, pulling the stopper from the bottle he held. Carefully he extracted the fine glass tube attached to it, letting the excess liquid drip away. It was a deep, reddish-brown and weak compared to some of the things lying around the medic ward, but it would still pack a good sting to such a fresh wound. Fenris did not so much as hiss when a drop landed on the open cut in the middle of his lip, then another at the corner of his mouth. The creases around his eyes did soften, however, when Cullen gently wiped away some potion that threatened to drip down his chin with his thumb. An assessing sweep of his eyes from Fenris' head to toes and he stood to set aside the bottle.

“Take your chest piece off and I will see to that gash.”

He heard a scoff but the chair creaked as he rose. There was some fumbling, a few groans, and then the armor was set to the side of the tray. Cullen put his fresh cloth down and picked up the armor, examining the nicks and holes. His eyes narrowed as his fingers skimmed along the tear he saw earlier. The edges around it were charred, curling in from intense heat. He went to Fenris, gently turning him so he could see his side and couldn't help hissing at the red, blistered cut running from the front of his abdomen to around and up the left side of his back.

Fenris sighed, sounding more tired and annoyed than anything. His palms rested flat on the table but would spasm now and then as he willed the pain away. “At least the blade was not poisoned.”

“Was it enchanted or...” Cullen leaned in to clean the burned and bleeding skin as quick and gently as possible.

“There were two mages among the forces.”

He couldn't help the surprise from coloring his voice. “That is interesting information.”

“And not in the least bit hypocritical.” The sarcasm doubled in his gravelly tone with a hint of venom.

“His Highness probably imagines anything excuses his need for war.”

After a few liberal drops of potion, Cullen grabbed a jar of cooling salve. Fenris glanced back, looking at the glob of blue goop on his fingers and scowled but turned once more for him to finish. Muscles jumped and twitched beneath his fingertips as he smoothed the medicine along the soft skin. He left a thin layer on the irritated patches but couldn't help rubbing the excess into the surrounding areas. If Fenris had a problem with the massage he didn't say, then again some of the tension eased out of his taut frame under his touch. The bandages came next and, while the look on Fenris' face bordered on pouting, he didn't resist as he wound the linen around his stomach up to the middle of his back.

Cullen began putting things back on the tray, cleaning up the drops of potion and smears of salve with some of the rags he snipped from the bandages, when the warrior's movements caught his eye. Fenris, ever the comfortable elf around those trusted few, didn't hesitate in peeling off his dirty and bloodied leggings. He frowned when he noticed an ugly bruise darkening his thigh.

“Any more gashes I need to see to?”

“No. Only bruises, which will heal on their own.”

The leggings joined his armor and he stood with his back to him, once again tense. Cullen came up behind him, slipping a light robe along his arms. His hands drifted from Fenris' shoulders to his waist, attempting to tie the sash when willowy hands clutched at his arms to pull them tighter around him. Any other time this would have filled Cullen with joy, perhaps tempted him to forget his usual decorum and let their passions escalate, but he had been around the warrior long enough to learn this posture, this tightening of every muscle, was a sign of agitation.

“How many made it back?” His voice was quiet but solid.

For a moment he didn't want to answer, knowing what would happen after. “Aside from you and Abram... No one.”

As he thought, Fenris wrenched free of his hold. His fists clenched, frame shaking further. Cullen thought he might throw the table over, or perhaps find his sword and stalk back out to Sundermount. A curse, barely a whisper in that lilting language, and then Fenris turned around. He came to him, hand raised to touch but then it fell limp to his side.

“Forgive me.”

Cullen frowned, the sadness and self-loathing in his tone made his own anger rise and he crossed his arms over his chest to keep from reaching for him. “I have not condemned an innocent in a long time, Fenris. Why would I do so now?” _To someone I hold so very dear._

The silent sentiment did not go unnoticed and Fenris glared, avoiding eye contact. “I have not taken your vows but...” He drew in a shaking breath, fists curling so tight that his knuckles grew white. “You both placed so much trust in me—”

“As we do still. What happened was no fault of yours.”

Fenris snarled, markings flaring for a moment as he stepped closer. “They were mine to teach! To protect! And I lead those men and women—those _children_ —to their slaughter!”

“You could not have known. You have taken recruits up the mountain for training countless times.”

“All the more reason I should have been prepared! Routine makes for an easy mark. They must have known, watched until finally striking.”

Cullen shook his head. “I do not believe that. From what has been gathered, along with yours and Abram's personal accounts, this sounds like a band of troops apart from Vael's army.” He paused, not knowing if voicing his next words would make him angrier. “He may not know that this attack occurred.” Surprisingly, Fenris nodded and his frown seemed more thoughtful now.

“I had thought that too. Perhaps I am just wishing it so.”

Suddenly his features hardened and he pivoted on one foot, robe flaring about, as he made his way deeper into their rooms. Cullen followed, not sure what was happening until Fenris dropped a bag onto his desk, sorting out his personal supplies. A handful of powerful health potions and salves, even a few poisons, were placed in a pile. Enough to carry on his own. Only when Fenris pulled out another set of armor did he step forward.

“What do you think you are doing?” A loud crack of thunder seemed to emphasize the exasperation in his tone.

“I am readying for travel.” He said it easy and light, a sign he knew what was coming would be anything but.

Cullen came closer, grabbing his biceps in part to stop him and also to keep the robe Fenris was attempting to shuck fall any further. “Where exactly are you traveling to?”

Fenris looked into his eyes, the dark green challenging. He lifted his head higher, chin up and jaw clenched in resolve. “East.” Understanding dawned on him but before he could speak the warrior wriggled out of his grasp to turn to his weapon stand. “If he has not already, he should be starting the journey back soon. I can perhaps meet him halfway, join his party.”

“You are not in any condition to travel, least of all to Ostwick.”

Fenris paused, hand flitting along his bandages for a moment before shaking his head from whatever thoughts he may have had against his plan. “I have traveled wounded much worse before. This will be nothing.”

Cullen kept from rolling his eyes. Sometimes he missed his old boring life, before he had to deal with this kind of insanity almost every day. “Do you not hear the tempest outside? Even if you were at your best, the main road to Ostwick is impassable now. The gales blowing in from the sea would sweep you off the cliffs.” It happened often, which was why he never sent troops along that way if storms were blowing in.

“Then I will stick to the forests and side roads.”

“You would risk dying on a foolish trek?”

Fenris slammed his sword down next to his supplies and glared, a small growl rising from his throat as if a feral beast was lurking within him. Maybe there was. Cullen was still not completely sure. When he spoke his voice was quiet and smooth and, though this was one of the men Cullen had given himself completely to, he could not help subtly shifting his stance as if for battle. If Fenris noticed he didn't react. “I will not lose him. How do we know if this group was rogue? What if two parties were sent, one for Kirkwall and one to track down the Knight-Captain? What if right now, as we stand around and debate, Vael's forces are closing in on him? What if he is already...”

And there it was. That _look_. The one that drew his dark eyebrows into a downward slant and softened his features into something young and vulnerable. His already big eyes grew larger and clear green, like rain-misted leaves on a stormy afternoon. That look, coupled with his slender hand clutching at the naked skin over his heart as he looked away from him, as if showing such emotion weakened him in his eyes, was all it took. It floored him, freed him, made him want to do anything he could for this man.

Cullen stepped around the desk and into his personal space. When he didn't move away he leaned in, running his hand along his cheek, down until he was cupping his slender neck and smoothed the pad of his thumb gently along his larynx. Fenris sighed, swallowing against the reassuring pressure at his throat before leaning against him. The warmth of him soaked through Cullen's clothes and he had to resist the urge to pull him close.

“I was... afraid... for you today.” The surprise must have shown on his face because Fenris continued, sliding his own hand up to rest at the back of his neck. “When we were ambushed and I had fallen I thought, 'I must get back.' I was certain that my fears had finally manifested, that Vael made good on his threats. I was afraid I would return to a leveled city. If anything were to happen to you... To either of you.”

Cullen lifted his free hand, grazing his fingertips once more against the bruise on his cheekbone. Fenris looked away to study his own hand, the fingers that lifted to flex against his chest. The nails were dirty, caked with mud and blood and Cullen was positive that most of it was not Fenris'.

“I only remember thinking of you, and the possible attack.” He scowled, gripping his shirt. “There are pieces missing. I came back to myself with Abram supporting me as we made our way back. What I do know is they are dead. I left no one standing, no one alive, and I do not care. If it had been Sebastian himself, I would not care.”

Cullen let his hands run down his sides, wrapping him in a loose hold. “You were protecting your charges, defending yourself. If it comes to Vael misunderstanding and thinking his troops were attacked, so be it. We will deal with that later. _I_ will deal with that. However, I will not have our recruits murdered and no one answer for their deaths. I will not have you killed because of his wayward soldiers.”

Fenris looked up once more, a bit of his earlier aggravation resurfacing. “And you would have me sit by while something else happens?”

Cullen kept from sighing, he did, however, pull the warrior's gaping robe closed and tied the sash. “Will it ease your mind to know that I received a missive yesterday stating that, not only did he pick up our group of Templars that had been stationed there last year, but they should be returning with Carver within the week?”

Instantly the tension drained from his body and he actually sagged against him. As if the mention of his name was enough to calm him, and the near cavalry he would have with him could not have hurt either. Fenris picked up his hand, pressing his lips to his knuckles.

“Yes, that will suffice. For now. And if you had said so in the first place...” He nipped at his finger before he could pull free.

Cullen smiled, running a hand through his hair. His attention was stolen by the rain sluicing down the window. It was late, too late to do much of anything. After the excitement of the morning the day got away from him. The evening meal would not be for a few more hours. He wrapped his arms around him further, glad that he had come all the way to the Gallows instead of being alone at the estate. Ever mindful of Fenris' wounds, he kissed his forehead.

“You should rest.” Now that the adrenaline had worn off the warrior would be feeling every aching muscle and pulled tendon. 

He smiled when he felt him nod, the action turning into a small nuzzle as he rested his head against his neck. A deep hum was his only reply before Fenris finally leaned back to gaze up at him. Those were definitely puppy eyes, the liar.

“Only if you join me.”

Cullen nodded, not trying to hide his fatigue. The sooner this whole ordeal was behind them all the better. He feared, however, that this was only the beginning. It didn't matter. He had been through darkness before and he would not fail now. Fenris lead him into the bedchamber and they burrowed under the thick blankets. In the gloom they held each other, the absence of their missing piece a dull ache.

* * * * *

“But, Messere, you did not finish reading the statement!”

Footsteps were pounding up the stairs. There was so much of a ruckus outside in the hall that Fenris was pulled from the book he was reading. Usually it was quiet at this end of the estate. The servants knew how he could “get” when he was interrupted. He stood, rounding his desk for the door when the other voice made him halt.

“Listen, you panty-waisted little git, I tolerated you all the way from the ass-end district entrance from the bleeding roads! You've told me the Important news. I got it. Now leave.”

It had been a long time since Fenris had heard the somewhat endearing, but not entirely missed, delinquent attitude, that it brought a smile to his face. Two men, one much larger than the other burst into his study. Before the Gallows' courier could enter he was pushed as gently as possible out, the door closing until it only remained open a small fraction.

“The Knight-Commander told me I must give you this, Messere! I was not to leave until I, firstly, found the Knight-Captain; secondly, escorted him back to Kirkwall; and, thirdly, made sure this private document was not seen, nor given, to anyone but the Knight-Captain.”

A long, suffering sigh came from him—an altogether bratty noise for a man with his stature—and he snaked his arm into the opening. “Fine. Give it!” There was the sound of shuffling paper and light footsteps retreating. “Wait, boy, I have a message of my own.” And now there was a slight purr to his voice, the infamous Fereldan brogue, and Fenris could see in his mind the smirk that was surely curling that mouth.

“Yes, Knight-Captain?” Now there was a hesitance in the servant's voice. Good, there should be.

“Tell the Knight-Commander that if wants me, come over here and get me.” The servant sputtered, not knowing if he was being asked to repeat insubordinance or flirting, but was saved when his superior spoke up once more without any hint of the previous heat in his words. “I'd rather talk strategy in-person. However, I'll be occupied at my estate since my absence was longer than expected. Please tell him to visit at his earliest convenience.”

“Yes, Knight-Captain. It will be done.” The relief in his voice was nearly tangible as he disappeared behind the closing door and Fenris couldn't help smiling.

“Andraste's flaming cu—” the relieved exclamation was bit off, ending in a hiss.

It always amused him that Carver now tried to curb his blasphemy halfway through his cursing. Large shoulders relaxed, plated armor slumping. The Super Important document was tossed on the table near the door, along with the helmet Fenris realized he must have pulled off as soon as he stepped foot inside the mansion. For some reason he was rooted to his spot, unable to come forward as he wished.

“Welcome back.”

At the sound of his voice Carver came to him. Massive gauntlets were dumped on his desk, making a more than effective paper weight for the stack of documents lying about. Anything else he may have said next was cut off as calloused hands gently gripped the sides of his face, turning him from side to side. Thick fingers made delicate, probing touches to his jaw and cheeks. He would have snarled at being babied, batting away the hands, if not for the insane amount of joy and relief he felt at having those touches back. It was utterly ridiculous to feel this way, but there was nothing for it. He had accepted long ago that, when it came to this boy, none of his barriers or inhibitions mattered. His lashes fluttered, eyes wanting to close, as fingers explored the bruises on the side of his face and the scabs on his lips. Honestly, they were better than they were a few days ago.

“Just you and a recruit?”

Fenris nodded, “Abram is a Templar now, rewarded for his skill and bravery...”

“Vael's men are all dead that were involved?”

“Yes.” Fenris closed his eyes as Carver pulled him closer. Though there was a layer of metal between them he couldn't help feeling comforted by the embrace. Fingers combed through his hair to rest at the back of his head.

“May the bodies of my enemies be devoured by hounds and shit into the forests.”

Fenris couldn't contain the chuckle his words brought him and he lifted his head to look at him. “Is that from a Fereldan sonnet?”

Carver didn't feel the need to respond. He bent just a small amount, the perfect amount, to press chapped lips against his. Fenris brought his hands up, wrapping them around the back of his head and carding fingers through thick black hair. It was growing out. Time on the road, in the wilds of the Marches, while hunting blood mages and demons did not warrant time taken out of the day to trim one's hair. It curled against his neck and shaded his eyes. Fenris could not help grabbing more and pulling him as close as possible.

“They will need you back at the keep soon.” Even as he said it, Fenris was guiding him up the staircase that lead to the upper level of his study. Long ago they refurnished the area and now he, as he often was when he and Carver happened to find themselves at the estate at the same time, was glad a plush couch was added.

Carver would stop and start now and then, stumbling a bit as he fiddled with the buckles of his cuirass and greaves. “Void take their needs. I just spent three months away, wandering the Free Marches' big-fucking-nowhere-land and hunting assholes that really should know better,” he said in between rushed and hungry kisses.

Fenris worried the Templar would fall back down the stairs until finally he yanked Carver forward, not releasing his lips again until they needed to breathe.

Fenris winced when Carver stepped away to rid himself of his heavy armor. It dropped to the floor with a clang, becoming a pile of dulled, dusty metal. Cullen would have some choice words with him if he found the Order's armor in such a state. Carver noticed his look after he toed off his boots, shrugging as he came close once more.

“It has to be repaired anyway.”

“You always did have the gift of perspective.”

Carver snorted, knowing what a joke that was and wrapped his arms around him. Fenris wrinkled his nose, tilting his head away even as he fought with the laces of Carver's stiff and dirty shirt. Carver noticed, laughing as he kissed along his forehead and traced a finger up one sensitive ear.

“Sorry. I was in such a hurry to get home that we only stopped for camp if necessary. As much as I have missed this, I wasn't exactly planning for a quick tumble. I can bathe before—”

“Later.” Fenris yanked the shirt up and over his head none too gently, giving the offensive garment one last glare before tossing it in a small bin he usually emptied once a week into the fire. His hands went back to work, settling on the ties of his trousers—which would join the kindling in just a few moments—when he looked up. “And this will not be quick, Carver Hawke.”

* * * * *

Carver groaned, stretching against the mattress as he woke further. The shadows above the headboard told him it was well into evening. He must have passed out sometime in the early afternoon after scrubbing himself raw in the bath and slept all the while. Rolling onto his back he sat up with a frown, scowling deeper as he looked down at the fresh bruises and scratches covering his torso. The thin sheets pooled to his waist, hiding what he knew would be more bruising. Glancing over to the side it appeared he had been alone for awhile. Why didn't he wake him?

The door opened and he watched as Fenris came into the darkened room. His eyes flicked to him for a moment before he went about lighting lamps. Finally, he picked up the steaming cup he set aside on entering and sat on the edge of the mattress. With his free hand he ran touches along the hard muscles of his chest, careful of the marks. Fenris splayed his hand as he reached his abdomen. The sheet fell lower and he moved to run fingers along the bruises on his hips. His hand curled along his hip as he slid closer, bringing the cup closer to his lips.

Carver's eyes closed as the sensations of Fenris' touch and the hot steam of tea wafting up to his face made the warmth he already felt settle deeper inside him. He missed this. Never would he admit to his fellow Templars or the green recruits, but over the years the idea of not venturing far from the estate he once felt annoyed that he was a part of and enjoying the comforts of home was becoming harder to resist. A calloused hand ran along his jaw, cradling the side of his face, and he opened his eyes.

“This is hot,” Fenris said as he tilted the teacup closer.

Carver met the warm porcelain with his lips, drinking long and slow. When half was gone and his throat and tongue were pleasantly warm from the temperature and spices Fenris knew he liked in his tea, the cup was pulled away to sit safe on the bedside table. Still not one for patience, Carver waited only long enough for the delicate cup to somewhat reach the surface when he grabbed Fenris around the waist to lift him onto his lap. The movement startled him and he let go of the dish with a clatter, hands automatically finding Carver's shoulders for balance.

Carver lay quick kisses against his lips and neck as he eased the already opened tunic off wiry arms before working on ridding Fenris of the light sleeping pants he must have thrown on before leaving their bed. Long fingers ran through his hair before tightening their hold and pulling, forcing his attention away from kissing along Fenris' collarbone. A deep chuckle rumbled out of Fenris, vibrating against Carver's lips when he resisted the pull.

“And here I feared I broke you.” The sheets were pushed away so naked skin could meet. Carver hissed at the contact, sensitive muscles and flesh reacting to the touch that had been absent so long.

“It'll take more than some bruises and cat scratches to break me.”

Fenris frowned, really only accomplishing a pout, as he realized he was being compared to an animal. But then a slow smile slid across his lips and a wandering hand found its way between Carver's legs. Nimble fingers instantly found the hole that was still moist and open, slipping in three at once and curved to find the magic spot inside. Carver's back arched, pressing himself down and against any part of Fenris he could reach.

“Perhaps, then, we should test your thresholds?”

Suddenly Carver's flushed face pulled back from his neck, a hint of clarity in blue eyes. Grabbing him by the biceps, it was nothing for the Templar to flip them around. He groaned, hips bucking as the fingers slipped from him and he eased down to fit between Fenris' now spread legs.

“Later,” he muttered as he bent to run his tongue along one of the elegant lines that curved down from Fenris' hip to thigh. He moaned, hips grinding into the mattress, at the taste of lyrium that seemed to coat his tongue.

Fenris eased back against the pillows, hands tugging and playing with the thick hair at the back of Carver's head. An eager mouth swallowed him and he smiled, closing his eyes and enjoying the touch he had gone without for far too long. The feel of movement caught his attention and he watched, amused, as one muscular arm shot out to the bedside table and blindly grope for the vial of oil they used earlier. Carver pulled away from him long enough to slick his hand before once more returning to tasting him, fingers working to prepare him.

It seemed an eternity since last he felt this touch. Though he and Cullen were far from celibate during Carver's absence, there were stark differences between the two that would never fade, nor would Fenris be able to do trade one for the other. Where Cullen was usually slow in his passions, torturous really, when he lay with Fenris, Carver was fast and wild. Cullen was the warm, licking flame; Carver the inferno. And Fenris could not, would not, do without either.

That wicked tongue pushed him over the edge as thick fingers mercilessly attacked his prostate. With a cry, legs wrapping around Carver's shoulders, he came apart. But his Templar was not finished. Even with the last spurts of his seed being licked away, Carver still massaged his insides, ruthless and demanding. Fenris gasped, locking eyes with him as he could do nothing but ride his hand. Carver rose to kiss him, making him taste the traces of himself.

There was something other than lust darkening that crystal blue of his eyes and Fenris growled, pressing closer and wrapping his arms around broad shoulders and slick back. He cried out, pleasure melding with pain as it so often did with Carver, when he pressed ever harder against his abused bundle of nerves while his other hand relentlessly worked his still so sensitive cock. It gave a twitch and a half-hearted pulse. He snaked his hand between them and grabbed Carver, hot and painfully hard by the sound of the hiss he made at the contact, and gave a skilled twisting pull.

“Do not make me wait any longer.” Fenris nipped at his chin, smiling at the harsh panting his lover breathed against his mouth.

With a sudden flip he was on his stomach, crying out as fingers ripped from him. Without a pause he leaned up, ass shamelessly rubbing against Carver's cock. Carver growled, cursing and pressing against him to still his movements. They lay panting, writhing, and Fenris felt he would go mad if Carver didn't continue. However, he remained motionless, grabbing up Fenris' wrists with one large hand and held them above his head, the other carded through his sweaty hair. Lips ran along the back of his neck, tracing over his shoulder blade before returning to graze his ear. The action was hesitant, the breath against his temple shuddering.

“Carver?” He turned as much as he could, nuzzling the slight stubble of his jaw.

The hand holding his wrists relaxed, moving between his own willowy hands for him to grasp. Lips found the corner of his mouth and Fenris shivered, realizing the gentle kisses were covering the cut and bruises that had yet to completely fade. Fenris worked his mouth, frowning when nothing seemed to want to come out and he sighed, closing his eyes. They were both still so terrible at this.

“I am still yours, Carver. I am here. We are here.” Fenris swallowed, a moan cutting off anything else he may have wanted to say as Carver pressed against him further.

“For as long as you can.” Carver pushed the slightest bit inside him, a broken sigh panted against his ear. “Promise me you'll stay with me as long as you can.”

“I am yours. There is nowhere else out there for me. Ever.”

Fenris screamed, head thrown back against Carver, as his lover thrust the rest of the way in. He clutched the hand still held in his, each grip nearly crushing the other. It hurt but it was a good, burning pain. He knew how to handle the young Hawke. Like every other time the pain faded, quickly replaced by a blinding pleasure that almost hurt just as much. He rocked his hips, crying out as a hand grabbed his hip to keep him in place against the mattress. Carver slid all the way in and began to torture him with small thrusts that kept him deeply embedded and constantly pressed against his prostate.

Carver ran his hand down Fenris' wrist, gliding along his arm, down his side to settle on his hip. His tongue found a line of lyrium that swirled around his shoulder and his hips snaps twice before he could stop himself. This kind of control was never his strong point and Fenris smirked at the sound of his harsh breathing and the shivering he could feel along his frame. He clenched his muscles as hard as he could, relishing the sounds coming from him.

“Fucking flames... Fenris, don't—I want this to last.”

He hummed, a near-purr rumbling in his throat. “And what of me? Perhaps I do not want to be kept from you any longer.” He leaned up as much as he could against the crushing weight of his lover, smiling at the sound of strangled gasps behind him. “I want to feel you finish, Carver. Do not make me wait.” Suddenly all movement ceased. Fenris pressed his face into a pillow.

“Keep going.”

His own attempts at regaining their momentum came to a halt and he turned his head, peering up in the direction of the voice. The door to their left was open and leaning in the frame was Cullen. He stepped fully into the room, door closing with a soft click. His armor was gone, most likely taken off and carefully placed on a rack in the outer chamber while they were playing. How long he watched them Fenris could not say, but he moaned in appreciation at the unlaced tunic and trousers. The other Templar moved out of his line of sight and his senses became hyper-aware of what his eyes could not witness.

The sound of rustling fabric told him the clothes were being discarded and a shiver wracked his body. A dip in the mattress and then Carver was crying out, pounding into him. Fenris put his hands palm-flat against the headboard, fingers scrabbling for any kind of extra purchase. He craned his neck as far as he could and moaned at the sight awaiting him, cock pulsing with the nearing of orgasm.

Cullen hummed, “I see Fenris has already loosened you up for me. Or should I say I taste it?” His voice was contemplative, hushed but not teasing and that made Carver unravel faster than anything else.

Without waiting for a reply Cullen leaned in again, thumb playing over the wet, pink hole before him. Temptation once more got the best of him and he ran his tongue along the puckered edges. It quivered and he pressed closer, sliding his tongue just deep enough to taste a trace of Fenris. He pulled away, blood pounding in his ears as Carver whimpered, taking out his frustration on the slight warrior beneath him. For a moment he only watched.

On this bed lay his world. At one point in his life he thought it was the chantry, the will of the Maker—it was the only solid thing he could depend on. Long ago he had loved but it had been twisted, perverted, and taken from him before there was a chance for it to flourish. Never did he think he would feel it again, was capable of feeling it. Yet the Maker blessed him, twice, and he still had trouble wrapping his mind around that.

“Cullen.” Carver looked over his shoulder, begging him.

Sometimes when he looked into those blue eyes he found himself staring into the eyes of someone else, someone completely different. Those eyes were sharp and cunning and, if he looked closer, he could see the flames reflecting in them from that horrible night. Blood and terror and so much death. So much loss. Often he wondered how he could love the man that shared the crystal blue eyes of the Champion. A soft whimper broke him from such dark thoughts and he looked once more. These eyes he loved. They were bright and passionate, never once able to keep secrets from him.

Cullen leaned forward, pressing against him as he took hold of Carver's chin to better angle the kiss. Without releasing his lips he took himself in hand and eased inside the yielding warmth he had gone without for so long.

There was no more thought after that. The room grew darker, save for the pockets of light around the room from the lamps. The fire was never started so beyond the tangle of bodies the air grew chilled. Hands gripped, lips and teeth played, hips jerked. A soft flash of light filled the room and both Templars cried out. The pulse of lyrium washed over them again, stuttering their movements. Fenris began thrusting back harder, smiling as Carver cried out from the sensations all around him. Another pair of strong arms came around him as far as they could, pressing them all further together.

It was getting harder to concentrate on breathing, the pleasure numbing him from the crushing weight above. Carver buried his face in his neck and Fenris could not stop himself from finishing as tender lips traced one of his markings. He was drowning in feeling. Their taste and touch, the mix of their distinct scents. It overwhelmed him. Fenris smothered his screams into the pillow beneath him. His hips gave one last jerk and he clenched his eyes shut, seeing the intensity of the flaring markings through the veil of thin flesh.

* * * * *

Carver leaned back, away from the document he read over for what felt like the hundredth time, and closed his eyes. Messaging the bridge of his nose and ignoring the empty space for his awaiting signature didn't make the bloody thing go away, nor did it stop the oncoming ache behind his eyes. Just arrived from killing demons, dodging abominations that wanted his balls for earrings, fleas under his armor and marching through mucky forests to find this. No, it was not doing anything for the pain in his temple.

What did help were the sudden soft lips at his ear, dragging down to his neck. Stubble scraped across his cheek as his welcome intruder leaned over his shoulder to snoop. Cullen sighed, giving his arm a squeeze before stepping away.

“That arrived for you midway through your mission.”

Carver grunted, walking to the open balcony door. “You should have burned it. I wouldn't have been upset.”

Cullen followed him, not leaving the room as he watched his back. It was dark, moisture in the air and most likely a thick fog rolling in from the sea to cover the city. His Fereldan seemed to enjoy the chill on his bare skin, the low-slung trousers the only protection from the dreary weather.

“You could always go back, now far easier than before.”

The statement was quiet though it wasn't hesitant and that made Carver turn. “With all due respect to good King Alistair, I'm not ever going back there again.”

Cullen shrugged, leaning against the door frame. “You could sell your property here, settle somewhere with a farm. You have always hated the city, it would not be a leap for you to head back home.”

“That stopped being home the moment I left Beth to rot on Blighted earth.” He came to him, in touching distance if he wanted. “The only way that will happen is if you and Fenris decide you want to live in Ferelden.”

“I cannot—”

Carver nodded, brushing by him on his way to the steaming kettle on his desk. “Exactly. We can't leave, and now that one of the names on the deed is Fenris' I doubt he'd want to pack up and go.” He smiled as he brought a cup of tea to his lips. “It's funny. When I first met him, he was squatting in a run-down mansion with holes in the roof and fungus growing in every odd corner, and now he'd throw a fit if he was away too long from his study and his books. But don't tell him I said that,” he added quickly.

“His name? When...”

Cullen sounded hushed, an emotion in his voice that made Carver's skin prickle. He tried to come off nonchalant but he was never good at fooling his superior. A blush crept over his cheeks and he looked away, fiddling with his teacup. Rough, skilled fingers traced along his abdomen and he shivered but made no move to escape the hand now resting on his naval.

He shrugged, scowling and trying to will his flush away. “Well, it's not like we're home as often as he is. It makes sense. Now he can make all the decisions he usually does but won't get any shit from the assholes next door, or the city council or whatever the flames it is,” he grumbled. His blush exploded as Cullen laughed and kissed his temple.

“Does he know?”

“No, I got all the papers settled right before I left. I've been working my way up to it since I got back.”

“So I saw.”

Cullen's amusement vanished, eyes widening as Carver pulled him closer. He held him in place with a hand to the back of his neck and another in the soft curls of his hair. A solid, cold weight settled in his gut and he wanted to curse. This kind of thing he was rubbish at, to this day. What would Hawke say to see him now? Probably laugh at how he still handled things like when he was a boy—hit or choke on his tongue with the stupid things he'd say.

Carver closed his eyes, breathing in as if readying for battle. _Just fucking get on it, you worthless git._ His eyes opened to warmth and patience, something that never changed.

“I'm never the one that leaves.” A hint of confusion and he swallowed. Try, try again. “You know, when we first stepped off the boat I couldn't fucking stand it here. I tried. For my—my mother. I did what Hawke thought was best and we got by, but not once did I stop hating this place. You know more than anyone how much I tried to do right for Mother, and for awhile it was fine. Hawke forgave me, money wasn't an issue finally and I started to feel like there might be some hope for us again.

Then everything changed.” He refused to cry about the past. “First Mother and then Hawke almost died fighting the Arishok... Did you know, before we,” a breath stuttered out of him and he looked at Cullen. “A few days before we first—I almost ran. Mother was in the ground, Hawke was kept in bed at the clinic and Fenris was avoiding me. I thought anywhere but here, but as I was packing I realized I _couldn't_ go.”

“Carver.” Arms went around him and Cullen's solid weight slid between his legs as they leaned against the desk.

“Don't,” he tightened his grip in his hair and the man gave an appreciative groan but remained silent after. “I need to say this. You know how long it can take me to get to a point so shut it. This place has never been perfect, even before Hawke and Anders caused such a clusterfuck, but—damn it—I think I've earned the right to stay here. Not bastards like Quentin, or Meredith or a fucking Tevinter darkspawn are going to uproot me again—let alone some asshole prince! So if anyone leaves, it's you or Fenris, and then I'll follow. But I won't leave either of you.”

Sadness filled Cullen's eyes. “War is coming. You could seek Alistair's protection.”

“If it's that easy, so could you. We are Fereldan.”

“I cannot leave the Order here, not in such a time. The city guard may not be enough.”

“Neither can I. No matter what else, I am your Knight-Captain. Horrible or not, this city is my home. I'll fight for it like I couldn't for Lothering.” He shook his head, letting one hand finally slide down and inside Cullen's opened tunic. “Of course I wouldn't take his offer. You're staying, I'm staying, that's how it works. Could there be any other course?”

“Perhaps a part of me still dreads this will end. An invitation from the king seemed like a perfect out if ever there was one.”

Carver snorted, “That's stupid.” Then his expression turned somber. “You have to know by now that I love you. I'm not that bad at this, am I?”

Cullen smiled, taking him by the chin as he leaned forward. “I have known for a long time, Carver Hawke, that the love I feel for you and that impossible elf in the other room is returned equally and unequivocally.” He pulled away as Carver reached for him, taking his hand and guiding him from the desk. “Let's get back to bed, I want to be there when you tell Fenris he is now the proud co-owner of the infamous Amell Estate.”

End

**Author's Note:**

> So, I hope everyone who reads this enjoys the story. I know it may seem OOC for them but I picked a moment in time to write about, with an established relationship in mind. To me, there are so many ways this three-way relationship could work. I just picked one scenario. :)
> 
> I kind of messed up a lot shifting between points of view. Honestly I know better, but this was just for fun and I wanted to share.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
